


Witchcraft and Other Problems

by Varjo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Allergies, Anathema is American, Animal Transformation, Caring Madame Tracy, Crack, F/M, Humor, Intruding, Irritable Beelzebub, Jasmine Cottage (Good Omens), Madame Tracy is adorable, Newt is a Dork, No offense to British people, Nudity, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pokemon References, Spells & Enchantments, Thanks to Mr. Paul Chahidi, The Author Regrets Everything, The Hamm-ster, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Violence Against Plushies, Witchcraft, Yes I am old thank you very much for noticing, hopefully, rodents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varjo/pseuds/Varjo
Summary: Anathema Jane Nutter-Device isn't an easy woman to fool - therefore, she is all up on her game as she feels a depressing evil force in Jasmine Cottage one early morning. What might the unkempt, hard-to-place stranger want? And what is the deal with the silvery-white and violet-eyed hamster they brought along?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. The Intruder

Anathema Jane Nutter-Device was a competent, self-confident, practical, intelligent, educated and above all independent woman. She had seen a lot and read about even more; her mind was as sharp as a razor blade, and she knew how to wield her own powers, physical as well as mental. It wasn’t easy to play her for a sucker.

Therefore, she didn’t doubt or dither for a moment as she woke early that morning and felt something was in the house.

Something evil.

Newt was still snoring beside her, sleeping the sleep of the righteous; Anathema gave him a fleeting smile before shrugging out of bed, carelessly smoothing out her pyjamas and thick black hair and sneaking on bare feet toward the vibrations. Her lips and throat were a little dry, and thoughts of danger and threat buzzed in the back of her head, but she ignored it. The latent peril in her own home had brought her to senses and attention very quickly, and she was doubtlessly aware she had to act. What exactly she was planning to do was less clear – the evil aura she felt was so intense and all-encompassing that breathing alone was not easy in its radius – she would just have to improvise. At the airbase she had improvised, too, Agnes or no Agnes, and prophecies or no…

The occultist was marginally aware that she should fear such a powerful dark impression, but she really didn’t have any mind for that. Something had forced itself into her house, broken in with unclear intentions, and no matter if it came from Heaven, Hell or Neverland: it would have to stand up for its deeds, first to Anathema, later possibly to law enforcement officials.

Indeed – someone was sitting in the kitchen, their head turned away so the resident couldn’t see the burglar’s face. Anathema could not discern much of the figure, except that it was sitting there uncannily motionless and had put a remarkably small hand on the table; the rest was a hard-to-interpret mountain of black. Worse than the dark, oppressive, and ominous charm that surrounded this creature - person - however, was the unpleasant, dull, resinous smell and the flies that buzzed around them in swarms. Anathema wrinkled her nose briefly and pushed back a dismissive thought – pull yourself together, Anathema Jane Nutter-Device, she told herself. As long as you don’t know what you’re dealing with, you should refrain from ridicule.

Instead, the occultist proceeded to sneak up closer, using the door frame as a cover, and assess the intruder’s appearance as quickly as possible so that she could plan her advance. He – or she – was small and didn't look particularly resilient1. The head, crowned by a sticky-looking, thick black mane, was lowered as if the burglar was dozing peacefully. Anathema took a deep breath and mustered all her strength – in a physical battle, her chances were probably fifty-fifty. And if she could get hold of one of her knives, she could turn the tide significantly in her favour…

“Stop fooling around and come in.”

Before Anathema had had the opportunity to sufficiently reflect on these harsh words, her body had already submitted, left the door frame and approached without consideration for the element of surprise. Her muscles reacted as if automatically, without her say-so. However, as these facts surfaced to her consciousness, she was able to snap out of it, a mere lunge away from her knife block. Tangentially she noticed that her nose started to itch and there was a faint burning in her eyes.

However had the… burglar achieved this…?

At least the stranger had now raised their head and faced Anathema; a face that was, firstly, eerily familiar to the occultist, and, secondly, confused her so much that she got tangled in considering which pronoun she would continue to use for whatever occupied her kitchen. Instinctively she labelled the face as boyish, but there were nagging doubts in the back of her head, suggesting that things weren’t all that simple.

Wise up, Anathema, she thought to herself and took a deep breath. Doesn’t matter. What is important is that you decide whether to grab a knife or the telephone, whether you should call the police, or rather the next available parson to stock up on Holy Water or take shelter in their church. Maybe it would be the best if she woke Newt right this instant and ran with him as far and as fast as their legs would carry them…

Somehow, the intensity within the intruder’s narrow pale eyes wanted to make her feel shame for her racing thoughts and restlessness.

One thing, though, was true without a doubt. All her scientific training had not made Anathema insensitive to supernatural influences, and there was no arguing about the fact that a very potent, very dark and malevolent spirit was sitting right now, right here, at her very own kitchen table. Quite probably a demon… and not even a demon who saw any need to keep themselves under covers.

“Vacate… these premises right now,” Anathema breathed under worrying levels of strain.

The intruder’s mouth corners twitched – Anathema was not convinced whether it was supposed to be a pale smile, condescending or however. This creature seemed thoroughly unpractised in the art of smiling. “Charming,” they commented, sounding utterly jaded, “Come here now and sit down – we need to talk business, the two of us.”

Anathema didn’t budge.

“I am right in assuming you are a witch?” the intruder enquired.

“Occultist,” Anathema corrected in a knee-jerk reaction and could not help herself from lifting a brow. Nobody ever seemed to be able to make this fine distinction.

“You speak in tongues, girl,” the intruder grumbled.

“And is it my fault now that you don’t speak any proper English?” the resident burst out, throwing her hands up in the air. “Or is this another subtle hint so the American foreigner finally understands that she should already scuttle back to her shelter across the big pond where everyone’s overweight and has at least a gun or two stashed away?”

Pause.

“I have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” the creature at the kitchen table finally mumbled.

Anathema rested her forehead against her fingertips and took some deep, calming breaths – whatever had she done to deserve this? How come the most peculiar, kooky residents of the United Kingdom seemed to gravitate towards her?

Newt, for example. Granted, he was sweet as cotton candy, but you couldn’t call him completely _ordinary_ in any sense of the word.  


Madame Tracy – Marjorie – the kindest person she had ever met, so sweet and caring and warm that it almost seemed phony, and this old military nut, what was his name again… Sergeant something-or-other. If he meant half of the things he said in earnest, somebody should really see if everything was right way up in there, maybe drag him out of his murky den now and again and make him talk to people a bit. People of this day and age who had corresponding problems.

The homosexual couple that had first hit her with their car, then stole her prophecies, the Nutter-Device-family’s greatest treasure, and only returned the book in a catastrophic state. Not that she ever would have assumed they had planned to hand it back to her…

Finally, there was Adam… Adam, the young Antichrist, and his friends… of course, she had travelled here expressly to find him, and surprisingly he was a quite pleasant kid, but anyway.

Or was it not her fault, and all British were a little out of it?

“Enough with the chitchat.” The commandeering tone had not left the growled voice; it inescapably pulled the occultist back to the current situation. “We should start our negotiations – at least if you are able to make yourself understood. I do not intend to spend the whole day here.”

“I need your binding oath beforehand,” Anathema demanded while approaching the kitchen table and resting both palms on the wooden tabletop, “that nothing… untoward will happen to me or my loved ones if I listen to you. Regardless of whether we… do business or not.”

The itching and tickling in her nose had grown more intense; Anathema sneezed, which made it marginally better. She idly rubbed the back of her hand over her aching and watery eyes.

The pale face disfigured by boils, the matte black hair, the frayed sash over the shabby blazer… this ornament on the burglar’s throat. She knew all of this from somewhere, Anathema was certain. She just couldn’t get it off the tip of her tongue and into her conscious mind…

The creature eyed her from top to – well, the middle; to where the tabletop shielded her body from their field of vision. “Acceptable,” the figure responded, “I promise not to harm anyone if you listen to me. Right. Can I now state my problem?”

Anathema pressed her lips together – but she motioned for the intruder to continue. Everything that was needed so she could get rid of this… character… as soon as possible and get back in bed.

She sneezed.

“There is a spell that you…” the creature began and lifted a hand to their shoulder; as Anathema reacted by jerking back with her eyes wide open, she was met by a reproachful-incredulous look. That expression soon disappeared, however; as if the American had every reason to be afraid and keep a safe distance, and the intruder was very well aware of this.

Insanely soothing.

“There is a spell that you have to undo.”

With that, the creature grasped hold of something that had to be nestled near the crook of their neck and pulled it forward. Anathema did not recognize what it was and did not want to focus on it; it was more important to be able to anticipate every single one of the stranger’s breaths.

“Transform this back into its original shape.”

Finally the occultist followed her uninvited guest’s motion – what she saw made her eyebrows rise.

For one thing, she now understood what caused the sneezing, tears, and itching. Sitting in the intruder’s palm, damn big for such an animal, was a smooth-haired, silvery-white hamster, staring straight at her and only wiggling its nose now and then, causing the whiskers to shudder. Now, due to her allergy, Anathema did not necessarily have the most thorough experience with rodents, and yet she was the slightest bit alarmed by the look of this animal. Not only because it sat there and stared out into its surroundings, fully aware that the world was out to do nothing but insult it limitlessly and apparently eaten up by breathless outrage and indignation at this fate; also because she was sure that such big hamsters with flat violet eyes did not exist.

It was adorable alright; no discussion about that. But since when have hamsters been able to think this astutely and have such complex emotional reactions?

On the other hand…

“Fascinating.” Anathema bent down over the little silvery-grey animal, suddenly regretting leaving her reading glasses on the bedside table. Also, her nose clenched and her tear ducts opened under fierce attack by allergenic hamster hair, which made her draw back as fast as she could.

The animal itself made as if to ball a fist (with those delightful little pawsies no less) or bare its teeth which looked unbearably cute to Anathema who had, despite her immune system’s apparent dislike for them, a huge heart for any sort of critter. She sneezed again, viciously wiping at her face, trying to regain control of her itching nose. She should be doing something about now, maybe take meds or get the hamster out of her kitchen – her eyes started to swell close. Within ten minutes, she thought, she would probably not be able to see anymore. Or breathe, as far as that was concerned…

It didn’t help that the intruder was still staring at her, quite possibly asking themselves whatever the witch woman thought she was doing.

\----------------------------------------------------------

1: Anathema caught herself thinking that the most promising way to get rid of the intruder could be a punch to the face and bit off an inappropriate chuckle. She wasn’t a black belt, but that much she could certainly do.


	2. The Hamster

“What…” the occultist took a step back and covered her running nose, scouring the back of her head for spells or rituals that might do the trick, “what the hell happened there?”

The stranger stared at her as if she thought Anathema brainless. “I turned someone into a hamster,” they croaked. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Let’s ignore this for now, the occultist thought as she asked the stranger, with one raised finger, to stay put while she stalked away to get her allergy medication and a box of handkerchiefs. Revert that spell… now, how would she accomplish that? There was one spell – well, a sort of ritual – that she considered, but that came with quite some hang-ups, and it could very well go awry in any sort of unpredictable ways if anything were left unclear.

She found the handkerchiefs and a half-empty bottle of allergy medication in the cabinet over the bathroom sink. Anathema was savvy enough to always have some pills handy, even though she had to admit that she hadn’t anticipated needing them on her trip to stop the apocalypse, so she hadn’t stocked them very well. 

Quickly, Anathema gulped two of the pills down with a glass of water, cleaned her face with a tissue and some more water. Only then, as soon as she felt the heat and swell and itch in her cheeks and eye corners and the base of her nose slowly subside, she returned to the intruder and what she began to think of as the patient.

“So you managed a full-body transformation,” she muttered as she sat down opposite the intruder, who had let the hamster clamber onto the table by now. The animal failed miserably at attempts to balance on its hind legs; it was sitting there, more anger and indignity than fur, still seeming fully prepared to attack everything that as much as smiled at it with whatever insufficient means it had at its disposal. “On an unwilling… recipient, no less. I didn’t even think that was possible.”

The intruder stayed silent. Their glance was like a drill.

“How did it happen?”

The intruder snorted. “You are the witch. You tell me.”

Anathema rolled her eyes but decided to forego the correction this one time – there were more pressing matters at hand. “Work with me here,” she implored the intruder whose brow creased at that request, “you want – him, you said? You want him back, I need information. This all could go horribly wrong if I lack or misinterpret any information and therefore fail to plan it into my spell-relieving ritual. Besides…” her fingernails started to drum an erratic rhythm on the table, “… intention is a vital part of magic. That your… friend…” the hamster gave a malevolent hiss, “… is now in this… let’s call it a situation, or a state… means that you wanted him to be like this. At least on some level. In some sense. At least for long enough to at least say an enchantment.”

The intruder eyed her with contempt before they turned away, giving a rattling sigh. “I always knew that thrice-damned Lilith was too lenient with you,” they grumbled. “Damn witches feel much too entitled for my taste now that she gave you power if you just kissed her boots correctly.

Damn if I know how that happened. I might have been a bit on the other side, if you see what I mean – been on Earth long enough to know that you people have found ways to achieve that. Those don’t taste half as bad as our booze, too. Then he came along and yelled and stomped his foot and puffed himself up like the self-important buffoon he always was and I just wanted him to be quiet, and so I… I might have cursed him. For all I know at least, I did.” They shrugged. The hamster seemed to attempt a furious face but couldn’t break the cute.

Anathema was silent.

“I didn’t think it would do anything.”

Anathema didn’t break her silence.

“For some weeks it was rather fun like this. I mean, he’s helpless, really.”

The hamster gave a loud squeak. No-one minded.

The occultist finally moistened her lips and took a deep, fortifying breath, encouraging herself to be both brave and calm. “If you managed to enchant him… why don’t you undo it yourself?”

Anathema sneezed. Cursed rodent!

Cursed rodent… that seemed to collect and display all the adorability of the world.

The intruder screwed up their features in an indignant way. “This featherbrain has worked a miracle on himself that protects him from heavenly and hellish miracles,” they explained, extending a hand and rubbing the little animal, which was trying in vain to wrench away, between the ears, “somehow I must have worked earthly magic on him, and I have no idea how, so I cannot replicate it - our counteract it. As a result, I can’t get him out again. I assure you, it was amusing at the beginning… locking him up in cages and chasing him around, putting fleas in his coat, ruffling his fur about until he looks like fresh out of a storm, and laughing at him for all that. For how helpless he is. But it’s getting boring by now… and…”

“So you are really a demon.” It didn't sound like a question.

The intruder tilted their head wearily and smacked their lips. “Makes me wonder, girl. So you are a witch – you can see auras and think it is your place to find the Antichrist and prevent Armageddon… with whatever right you seem to assume you’re able to claim… but you cannot even recognize the second-highest being in the infernal hierarchy when they’re sitting right opposite. You should really think about how you do your work, girl.”

Anathema sneezed.

Did she really have to subject herself to that?

“I have to know exactly on which day the curse was cast,” she said curtly and quite business-like, drawing back from her client with a superior, cold air and crossing her arms, “the moon phase would also be helpful… a full moon or new moon strengthens every spell, if you enchanted him during one of those, we have to do the ritual in the same phase or repeat it several times. I also need…” she reflected for a moment, “… sea salt and lavender oil, or olive oil, whichever you have handy… a white candle and an object that you think represents the spell.”

“I have a hamster,” the intruder growled.

“And you would agree that I cut him into pieces to lift the curse?” Anathema countered, playing innocent.

Another indignant squeak emanated from the white rodent.

The intruder was breathing in aggressively, possibly preparing a scathing retort, as a drowsy voice rang out of the direction of the doorframe, “Ana… darling, what is… what are you doing up at this unholy hour of…” followed by a hearty yawn.

“Nothing, Newt, darling,” the occultist immediately tried to defuse the situation, turning around and shielding the uninvited guest from Newt’s gaze as much as possible, “just a… client. Unexpectedly. Go back to sleep, we will try to be quieter.”

Unfortunately, Newt had not only taken his own glasses from the bedside table, but put them on, too – and his eyes bulged out of their sockets as he recognized Anathema’s interlocutor. “That – that – person was on the airbase!” he exclaimed.

The intruder tensed up in a way that made Anathema sense that Newt would regret it if he didn’t, as quickly as he was able to, bring a few yards between himself and this room.

“You don’t say,” she muttered, now jumping up to push her boyfriend, who seemed utterly lost in this situation, out of the room, “now go, Newt, please, I’ve got everything under control. Go take a shower first, alright, and once you’re done, he’ll be gone, then we’ll have our coffee and you can go downtown and visit Mr. Shadwell or send out your next round of applications…”

“Anathema, are you –“

“Of course I’m sure.” She tried to smile and laid a reassuring hand on Newt’s cheek. He was so very kissable in his awkwardness, but sometimes she also felt the urge to hurl him away with an oversized slingshot. And wasn’t this every couple dynamic ever? Everything couldn’t always be blue skies and rainbows. “I’m a big, scary girl, I can very well take care of myself.”

Newt’s face turned sour. “I didn’t mean to imply that…”

Anathema managed not to lose the smile, but it became much more strenuous. “Shower,” she repeated, gently but firmly.

“Shower,” Newt echoed, a little defeated, before turning and shuffling off toward the bathroom.

Anathema pressed her lips together and stroked her hair restlessly. They would have to talk about that later… 

Sitting down again, with her forehead resting on her fingertips, the occultist noticed that the intruder stared at her blankly, but paid only the bare minimum of attention to it. It seemed like there was never any sort of rest – not in their position.

“I’ll bring what you need, witch,” the burglar finally picked up the thread of the conversation themselves, “but you’ll have to take care of him until then.”

“Just a moment.” The occultist raised a hand, irritated. “You’re going plenty fast right now. On the one hand we still don’t know on which day of the week the original curse was spoken…”, the “customer” gritted their teeth impatiently, “… and on the other hand… even if I agree that he has to get out of your aura to be adequately cleaned and freed from influences: I cannot take him. I don’t have enough medicine for even a week, and if you really don’t remember when that happened, I’d be waiting for the next full moon. That would be…” her eyes shifted to the calendar in the corner, “… a little over two weeks away. So you see…”

The intruder grumbled and rolled not just the eyes, but the whole head. “Whatever you say, witch, and take him to the shelter for all I care if you can pick him up in time.”

Anathema stared thoughtfully at the little creature which seemed to fluff up with every breath (the impulse to hug it and press it to her cheek, disregarding its squirming and clawing and squeaking, was damn near overpowering), thinking that she already had an idea where he could stay these two weeks… oh, he wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t like it at all. But at least she was trustworthy, and Anathema knew so few people here in the United Kingdom…

Her interlocutor rose and sauntered towards the front door, throwing back the last words over their shoulder without as much as looking back at her, “I’ll be back in two weeks and I’ll have what you asked for, witch. I demand, though, that you will also be prepared. Oh, and one last thing…”

Having arrived at the door, this strange, black-clad, unkempt, smelly, condescending and outrageous figure turned halfway around.

“He may or may not be an angel.”


	3. The Retired Medium

Solemnly, Anathema mused that she should lose the habit to ride her bike into London. Granted, this time it was her only possible choice; Newt needed the car for his job-hunting, and Anathema didn’t exactly want to be dependent on him for mobility – for being able to return to their cottage and her research for the next project. So the bike was her sole available mode of transport, and even without reckless drivers like the one in the vintage car, that was not entirely safe in the middle of a bustling, busy city like London.

But now she had arrived, safe and sound. She dismounted, leant the bicycle against the house wall and detached the wicker basket in which she carried her little furry passenger, bedded on newspaper clippings and cut grass from her garden. She would have to leave it here with the animal – Marjorie certainly didn’t look to purchase a cage, not for two weeks at most.

Marjorie… Anathema sighed to herself, approaching the entryway and ringing at ‘Madame Tracy’s’. Sometimes, she was apprehensive at the thought that she liked Marjorie – and who, in earnest, could dislike this cordial, warm, caring, zealous soul of a woman? – but not the way she deserved to be liked. Mostly it was just too much, too overenthusiastic, too… ah, Anathema be damned if she knew. Everything she could definitely pinpoint was…

“Hello?” a chipper elderly-lady-voice rang from the intercom, and Anathema cleared her throat and gathered herself before announcing her presence.

“Oh, it’s you, sweetie! What a pleasure. Do come on in, Don and I are waiting.”

Oh. Sergeant Shadwell was there as well. What a blessing.

Cued in by the metallic whirring of the unlocking mechanism, Anathema entered the house. Where had she been in her train of thought? Ah yes: Newt, who reluctantly looked up to Sergeant Shadwell as to a father2, had introduced them, and Madame Tracy – Marjorie “Just call me Jo, sweetie” Potts, which was her legal name – had almost immediately started to bestow so much love and attention onto her that Anathema felt a bit prickly in her own skin just thinking about it. She meant well, she definitely did, but it was overwhelming at times. It was overwhelming and, yes, occasionally a bit paralyzing to think that, while your own mother was still alive and happy, you were adopted by an adorable older lady who did not even have prospects to be your mother in law.

Anathema sometimes pictured her scurrying about in her flat for hours, baking cookies and cakes, brewing tea, finding presents and arranging them in a tasteful way – in a way her hardly-ever daughter in law would find appealing – when she knew Anathema would visit, and she would be cheerful all the while, but the occultist couldn’t help but feel overtaken by all the effort. In the end, she knew, she would fish for the perfect moment to get up and leave for hours on end, but it would never present itself. She wouldn’t dare to say goodbye without fearing having been impolite to this amazing woman who, in the end, wanted only to make her happy.

Maybe this was due to the generation gap? Or she didn’t know because she’d been brought up in the US, and the elderly British were all like that…? Perhaps there was something in the British climate that made men grouchier and crankier and women more lovely and caring the longer they were exposed to it.

Maybe this was a promising field for further research…

“Jo!” she, nevertheless, exclaimed joyfully as Marjorie approached her in the corridor and locked her in her arms. Without the flaming red wig, the false lashes and the patchwork dress she looked agreeably different – a bit less like the kooky old aunt who had electrocuted herself in her amateurs’ laboratory.

“Anathema, sweetie, how do you do?” the retired medium asked, squeezing her tightly, “I am so glad you managed to come by, we meet so seldom since you’re living so far out. And this perfume! Sweetie, you need to tell me what it is, it suits you to a t.”

Thus, it began. Anathema’s careful affection mixed with tender shame. Sie just wasn’t capable of valuing Marjorie the way she probably deserved.

There was some rather fervent stirring inside the basket. This reminded Anathema to focus.

“I’m fine,” she answered Marjorie’s first question, stepping back from her – Marjorie’s hands remained at her shoulders, and she beamed up at her. So much sincere cheerfulness in one single mind… “I have… well, I hope everything is fine at… at yours and Donald’s, too.”

Marjorie waved that off, laughing. “Everything in order, sweetie, something really outrageously bad has to happen before the both of us are thrown. We’ve seen a lot, we’re still here. Now come in, sweetie, the tea is almost ready, you should be feeling right at home.”

Don’t. Please stop, Jo, don’t coddle me like that, I am not…

And what if she was, by some way of speaking, something like Marjorie’s daughter already?

“Did you bring our little houseguest?”

This question made Anathema, jumping a bit, remember her mission. “Yes!” she exclaimed, entering the flat behind Marjorie, “Yes, I have the little one… with me. He is… by the way, thank you again that you’re taking him in for these two weeks. I wouldn’t know where else to lodge him.”

Marjorie tweeted renewed, chipper laughter. “Don’t mention it, sweetie, after all, you’re almost a part of the family now.”

Was it disgraceful or troubling, now, that upon this assertion, Anathema felt a lump form in her throat that she could neither deem entirely good nor entirely bad?

Sergeant Shadwell sat at the kitchen table and appeared, quite like Anathema herself, to feel rather lost in this situation. The occultist had in her lifetime met nobody who had been as light-hearted and devoted and at the same time as puzzling and befuddling as Marjorie Potts, and by the look of him, Donald Shadwell was under much the same impression. He answered to Anathema’s greeting nod with the same, plus a slight wave of the hand and a silent lip movement which might or might not have been a ‘hello’.

This twitching around his mouth’s corners – was that a clumsy attempt at a smile?

“You have to tell me how things are with Newt,” Marjorie continued their conversation with glee and enthusiasm, showing Anathema to her seat and returning, herself, to the tea kettle, “he is such a splendid boy. Is he still looking for a new job?”

“Yes,” Anathema answered, taking advantage of a brief silence after the question. She had settled down; the basket with the hamster sat on the table next to her. “Yes, he… drove into the city some time before I took off. It’s not that easy anymore nowadays, you know, since you cannot sit him down with a computer. Sometimes I ponder just hiring him as my assistant…” But then, she thought, how am I going to make use of an assistant who defuncts my laptop just trying to start it, my laptop containing all those valuable notes, drafts and correspondence? My papers, articles, scans and presentations? Besides, he should not be by my side twentyfour-seven. A lady needs her space now and then.

He could carry my luggage on my work voyages, she thought and bit back a snicker.

This thought reminded Anathema that someday, she would have to re-cross the ocean. Return home. It was an oddly melancholic notion. Time after time, she caught herself postponing her return home, closing the laptop with a shake of her head or leaving the flight-check site for another when she had finally sat down to plan her journey, telling off her family, who were constantly inquiring after her health and her plans to come back. She always found a reason why now was not the time, why it did not fit her plans at all momentarily, why she had to stay for a bit longer, and she wasn’t certain whether that should feel alarming. Fact was, it didn’t. 

Trying not to sink into this reflection all too deeply, she took a cookie from a porcelain plate sitting in the middle of the table.

“Private Pulsifer will push through,” Shadwell voiced uncharacteristic optimism. “He's proven tha' he won’t fold under pressure. He has the will an' he has the heart!”

For once, Anathema and Shadwell were of one mind about something. Stranger things, and all that.

Following a friendly hint from the lady of the house, Shadwell got up and helped dressing the table with a tea service; Anathema chewed, a little listlessly, on the dry cookie, but was present and polite enough to thank her hosts for the tea. Then, the retired medium noticed the basket.

“Is this here our guest?” she asked, pointing at the container, and Anathema nodded.

“Should I – I mean, for the time he is here, I thought he could remain in the basket so you don’t have to go out and buy a cage. He should have enough bedding, though, you know, a bit of fresh grass or paper and now and then a cleaning won’t hurt. Feed him with… salad and carrots, I think, that should be about right. Maybe here and there an apple slice. And fresh water, of course, very important. I don’t think he would gnaw on wires, but, you know, better to keep him away as a precaution.”

“All clear, sweetie, I know my way around animals,” Marjorie calmed her yet-somehow-prospective-daughter-in-law, “I had two guinea pigs as a child – Wilbur and Willis. Two males. At least we thought so, until Wilbur one day had a litter of adorable young!” She laughed, high and clear. Anathema smiled wanly – yeah, the old rodent problem. “I couldn’t keep them, of course, but you can believe if I say I fought and cried and threw a huge tantrum as my father took them to the pet store. Well, at least he didn’t just drown them… but listen to me go… now let me see the little love, sweetie, let him explore his new home a bit…”

Anathema began having second thoughts about her decision, but she gathered herself up, reached into the basket and grasped – nothing. The little furball was remarkably headstrong, didn’t like to let himself be touched, be it to pet or discipline him, and anyone trying to lift him up should be prepared for scratches and bites. But now they had no choice…

“He’s hiding,” Anathema told her hosts with a surly smile while she combed through the bedding with a clawed hand. Where are you, you little rat, she thought, not without a certain tenderness, come to mother now, let me…

_There you go._

The hamster squealed and meeped, twisted and turned and fought and – yes – scratched, regardless of Anathema’s careful conduct, as she lifted him out of his shelter. That one you need to put up with, she mused, bringing the kicking animal to light and placing him on the table.

Marjorie was enamoured – as had been foreseeable. “Oh what a lovely little… Anathema!” The occultist couldn’t deny herself a little smile as her host extended a hand as if to stroke the hamster who, in turn, backed up against Anathema’s hand, puffed himself up and rasped his teeth threateningly – not that he managed to intimidate anyone. “I’ve never seen such fine white fur! How delightful! Where did you get this little Goliath? Are you sure there isn’t a bit of guinea pig in his genes?”

“I can’t give you his genealogy, sorry…” she admitted, still smiling, and wondered whether she should point out to Marjorie that he was a shape-shifted human, as little as she believed it herself. Or an angel, even, judging by the last throwaway remark the stranger had left her with, which was, of course, even less believable…

With two dainty fingertips, Marjorie stroked down between the ears of the animal who sat there as if petrified, his back just barely not touching Anathema’s hand; her smile was absolutely genuine and full of sweetness. “The both of us are going to get along swimmingly, don’t you worry, sweetie. Are we not? Yes, sure we are. What’s his name?”

Anathema blinked. “You know, I haven’t even thought of asking for that,” she admitted, scratching her cheek in unease, “you’ll probably have to call him ‘little one’ for these two weeks…”

“Certainly, sweetie. As I said, we will be getting along just fine.”

“One thing,” the Sergeant chimed in, sounding rather much as a dog circling another, contemplating attack, and Anathema, telling by the tone of his voice that he was prepared to play guardian, shot him a vigilant look.

“Yes…?”

Sergeant Shadwell’s face was full of suspicion and dutifulness, his eyes flickered beneath the thick eyebrows as he asked, “How many… nipples does it have?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------

2: A father, though, whom you would ask to lower his voice just a tad, keep his distance and not get into people’s faces, and to sit down, please, people are already gawking…


	4. The Interlude

Anathema Device’s next two weeks, while she was preparing for the ritual, were marked by telephone calls like this:

“Anathema, sweetie?”

“Yes, Mar… Jo, I mean. Hi. What’s the matter?”

“Oh, sweetie, it is about your hamster. I’m afraid he’s disappeared, I let him out of his basket and now he’s gone. I’ve already asked Don and he swears he hasn’t touched the little one nor ever would, and I can’t find him anywhere in the apartment…”

“Jo, didn’t I tell you to leave him in the basket if possible?” Patience, Anathema. Don’t let it get to you. Breathe. Deep.

“But – but he cannot properly move in there at all, not to mention get fresh air and sunlight! He’d only get very apathetic indeed in there. Imagine that you are locked up all day in a room where you can only take four steps in each direction before hitting a wall, and you have no natural light either… that can’t be healthy!”

Anathema massaged her forehead and was about to start saying something as a dull clank rang out from the background of Marjorie’s apartment. The retired medium gave a sharp gasp of surprise. 

“Just hold the line for a minute, sweetie, if you’d be so…”

Anathema, mouth still open, did as she was told. She was a little nervous about it, but…

There was scraping and rustling in the background, Marjorie’s dull, distant and distorted voice intoned incomprehensible words. Anathema started tapping the tabletop with her ballpoint pen. What in heaven’s name was going on there…?

Then a buzzing noise in the line indicated that Marjorie had picked up the receiver again. “Excuse me, sweetie,” her voice, sounding a little tired, reached through the line to the occultist’s ear, “He has… I don't know _how_ he did it, but your hamster somehow clambered onto the side table and knocked over my candles and pushed my crystal ball off the base and rolled it onto the floor.”

“Oh dear, did he…”

“No, sweetie, all’s well, no cracks or anything, thanks for asking. I just never thought that a hamster could have such strength.”

“I mean did he scratch you? Bite? Something like that?”

“He actually did.” A little unwilling displeasure crept into Marjorie’s voice, and Anathema found herself almost glad that being in this emotional state was also possible for this all-around endearing and lovely woman. “Used his little teeth, a little. But it's okay… I gave him a stern talking-to, he should remember that. He’s just an animal after all, he doesn't know better.”

Tell her what she is dealing with, Anathema Jane, I beg you.

Just tell her! She won’t believe you anyway. Will only think you are overworked – or might need to be confined to an institution or something. Oh, not that she would ever say it, not in so many words, but…

“He _is_ wormed and vaccinated, right? I don’t really intend to catch rabies or tetanus or something similar, by all due respect…”

“As far as I know he’s been okayed by the vet,” Anathema dodged the question, but her interlocutor hardly seemed to listen.

“He also made quite a mess of Don’s hand as he tried to put him onto his back to search his nipples… what am I to say, sweetie, you know Don is a man who takes his ideals and principles seriously, you know how that is.” She gave nervous, short laughter, and the reply dried up on Anathema’s tongue. “Fortunately, I could separate them pretty quickly, and Don’s been sulking since. But well, sweetie, be that as it may, everyone’s safe now and where they belong, and you know what, I am just going to leave you to whatever you do at this amazing hour of the day. Take care!”

“Yes,” Anathema muttered sluggishly, “You too.”

With which the older woman hung up.

Some days later:

“Yes, Jo, what happened?” Remain friendly, be kind, be patient.

“Hello sweetie, it is about your pet.”

However had she anticipated that? “Yes, what’s the issue?”

“Are you absolutely certain, sweetie, that he’s not…” she smacked her lips, “…that he isn’t ill or something like that? I mean, he still struts around all self-confidently – I put him into a broom closet, there he cannot break anything and move about nevertheless, and he is out of Don’s reach, and hamsters like to climb, I think I remembered that – but he doesn’t eat. Like you asked me to, I made him some chopped vegetables and put them in on a plate for him, but he hasn’t touched them at all. I start to wonder whether it wouldn’t be best to take him to a vet…”

“That won’t be necessary,” Anathema chimed in, possibly a bit too fast, massaging her forehead. One thing was clear to her: she did not want to attract too much attention to herself and the little critter. “He will merely need a couple of days to get used to the new environment. I, frankly, think this will go by if you leave him alone for a couple of hours.”

“Are you certain, sweetie? I wouldn’t want little furball to starve.”

He won’t… at least not if his friend, or whoever that was, told the truth.

“Just give it a try, okay, Jo? You’ll notice if he weakens or something like that.”

“You’re most probably right. Fine, I will risk it for this time. Give regards to Newt and ask him… what’s that, Don? Whether you’ve seen someone dance naked in the forest out there? Now Don, you old silly, that’s really…”

Click. Hung up.

Another few days later, underpinned with laughter:

“No, sweetie, nothing bad this time. I just by accident broke a flask of lavender perfume yesterday and your little darling seems to like it, so I made him a cute little nest out of clothes I don’t wear anymore and sprayed it down with the perfume. He’s torn up the clothes – sweetie, you should call him Hercules, he’s got strength for two or three hamsters! – but now he’s quite comfy there, I reckon. Like a little prince!" Chirping laughter. "I will only be able to use the closet with an open window in the closest future, but that’s a small price for such a content little hamster face. By the way, Don asked me to warn you of black cats, owls and ravens and not to touch any toads… but I would assume you know that yourselves? Yes, certainly. Do we even have poisonous toads around here?”

So, it seemed everybody had found a way of getting along with one another as Anathema finally, two weeks sharp after their first encounter, again perceived these same threatening, oppressive, evil-ish vibrations. Looking out of the window at which she stood, doing the dishes with Newt, she could discern the back of her known intruder’s head. They had made themselves comfortable on the bench in her garden, seemingly doing nothing but stare into the far-off. Anathema quickly checked the slowly rising moon; biting her lower lip, she decided tomorrow night would be a possible date for the ritual.

She couldn’t decide whether to look forward to it or be worried.

The couple finished their task; telling Newt she would go out for a walk, to gather herbs at this moon phase, for cooking as well as for her occult profession, she kissed him on the cheek and left the cottage for the garden.

The stranger didn’t seem to have minded the wait; as they lifted their glance to the occultist, their mouth was neutral and narrow, their eyes dim as usual and their breath regular. Anathema couldn’t explain to herself how or why, but somehow, the intruder struck her as rather more feminine now than on the day of their first visit. She didn’t think it was the clothing… make-up couldn’t be the thing, they wore none. Most probably it was something to do with their attitude and conduct.

Interesting, she thought, greeting the intruder stand-offishly. My first meeting with a genderfluid person.

“I have what you asked for,” the stranger said instead of a greeting.

Anathema’s gaze followed the intruder’s gesture to where she could just so see a white candle and a brown bottle peek out of a plastic bag. “Great,” she commented drily, “just common courtesy seems to still be out of stock.”

A flash shone out of the stranger’s eyes. “What was that?”

Anathema rolled her eyes and made a defeated gesture. “You know, most people knock on doors if they want to speak to someone. Use the telephone. Or they at least say a by-your-leave and don’t just lurk in other peoples’ houses or gardens until they are noticed.”

The stranger didn’t comment – not unless a penetrating glower was to be called a comment.

Anathema sighed. “Whatever. With this we are aptly prepared – I told Jo we would be there tomorrow at four. Four. PM. Shadwell will be out, thank the heavens, he’ll be working or visiting someone or something like that.” She gave the stranger her not-quite-parents-in-law’s address and asked whether they could find that place – and of course whether they were able to make enough sense of a watch face that they could be there approximately at the proper time.

The stranger’s brows knitted. “I will find it,” they muttered, getting up and ambling off into the night.

Anathema gazed after them, wondering about the people that existed, before she, shaking her head, took the bag they had left behind and re-entered the house without any herbs. Newt was suspicious at first, but he let himself be calmed. Better people than he would probably be distracted by their loved one’s body snuggling up to them on the couch.


	5. The Ritual

Marjorie measured the stranger with her head cocked and her mouth slightly open as they entered her flat by Anathema’s side. The occultist tried for a moment to imagine the thoughts that might race through the retired medium’s head and whether she would need to calm someone down, warn her before things had a chance to go awry, but she gave up on that task swiftly. As long as no-one was openly aggressive, that should be fine by her.

Then she remembered that Marjorie had been on the airbase, must have seen the stranger sprouting straight from the ground as well, and that made things no less complicated.

“Darling love,” Jo addressed the stranger who responded with their usual menacing glance, “You look... Oh, I shouldn't say. What happened to you, love? Should I make you a tea, do you need a salve, a patch, bandages, antibiotics, a place to wash? The bathroom is…”

The stranger turned to the occultist. “What is she blabbering?” they grunted, and Anathema felt the sincere urge to sink into the floorboards.

“She merely tries to be a good host,” she muttered irritably, “Doesn’t matter. Jo, be a dear, which room did you prepare for us?”

“Certainly.” Marjorie nodded her head softly and made toward the door. “I chose the living room – the bedroom would have been too much of a hassle to get free enough, with the bed and all that. The little one’s waiting there already, I… safe as houses I assume, though he hasn’t eaten a bite in two weeks’ time. This is alarming, isn’t it?”

The stranger merely grumbled something while following Marjorie down the stairs.

Anathema, meanwhile, already checked the space that had been emptied for the ritual; the carpet showed visible imprints from where furniture used to stand, but apart from that, the floor was smooth and even, which was good. Powerful, orange-red light from the setting sun flooded the room, made it picturesque and, yes, maybe a tad romantic. The bowl – plastic and shallow; usually perhaps used for pancake dough – sat there filled with water, a matchbook lay next to it, Anathema carried the Athame on herself (well-hidden so nobody should feel it upon themselves to remind Anathema of this country’s laws about carrying sharp objects in public which she, she had to confess, had not actually studied), and the other ingredients were hopefully provided by the intruder.

Even the hamster sat, eerily calm, next to the bowl, awaited their approach with quivering whiskers and one little paw drawn to his white-furred chest. It was as if he understood and waited impatiently for being put back into his human body, onto his two human feet… and, to be honest, it was quite likely that he did.

If there had been any truth to the intruder's words...

“Is everything the way you need it?” Marjorie asked nervously, coming to a halt behind the occultist and clasping her hands in front of her stomach, “I also have a ceramic bowl, or one of metal, if that would be better…”

“Thank you, Jo,” Anathema murmured while kneeling on the floor and almost subconsciously reaching out as if to pet the hamster who drew back irately, but didn’t hiss or squeak this time, “nothing wrong with the bowl. There is a bit of water between the fire and the plastic, after all.”

The stranger, having taken position to the right behind her, drilled their gaze into the back of her neck.

The occultist subsequently turned to the supplies the intruder had brought.

The candle was fine. It had been in use before, was already slightly singed, slender and straight, a bit more voluminous at the base than at the tip; she wondered how she would make it stay upright in the water, but that she would worry about later.

Apart from that, the intruder had brought a dirty, worn old plush. Hideous, with a set of too-big, too-round eyes and a ceaselessly grinning mouth of thread, stitched-on arms and legs that were much too short and stubby to be of any use (Christ, they wouldn't even reach the floor if the creature were to move on all fours), edgy, long ears and a felted, just as edgy, flat tail – and, most importantly, it was bright yellow with circular red dots on its cheeks. A fat brown beetle crawled over the plush’s stomach – Anathema, picking it off with her fingertips, wondered whether the intruder knew anything about this character they brought. “A Pikachu?” she asked, shooting the stranger an inquisitive-scathing look over her shoulder. “That’s what you think represents the curse?”

“What?” There was aggression in the intruder’s voice. “It resembles a hamster well enough, doesn’t it?”

That’s not what this is about, Anathema thought; but she sighed in acceptance and put the plush away. No reason to get all wound up; not by this. This could be worked with.

The brown small bottle was next – but Anathema jerked back as she smelled it, expecting it to contain the oil. “Ocean water?” she asked, turning around to the stranger who eyed her inquisitorially, “What am I to do with ocean water?”

“How do you imagine I bring you zzea zzalt without any water?” the intruder snapped. “Did you expect me to wait until it has all dried up? Sea salt izz in sea water. That izz how it izz.”

Anathema laboriously kept herself from jumping up, grabbing this idiot’s sleeve and dragging them, cussing all the while, over to the next Tesco’s where, clean and dry and neatly packaged, pack after pack of sea salt would be sitting on shelves, quietly waiting to go over sales counters – but she took a deep breath and calmed herself. If even Marjorie who seemed to accept everything and everyone for what and who it was noticed that something was off about this one, she could not expect them to remain undetected and not cause a ruckus in a supermarket full of people. Instead she turned to Marjorie who made a concerned impression: “I’m so sorry I have to ask you, Jo, but do you happen to have sea salt in the house?”

The retired medium shook her head. “Just normal table salt, sweetie, I’m sorry,” she answered, spreading her hands apologetically, and Anathema, reflecting, chewed her lower lip. In this case they would have to stretch the definition a bit. Get creative, as much as Anathema would usually advocate against it. In the end, the sea water probably truly contained enough salt so they could say they had added it.

The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was what Anathema produced out of the bag next: a desiccated, lifeless-looking bunch of lavender straws. “Worthless!” the occultist exclaimed and threw the herbs to the floor after having contemplated them from every possible angle, “sea salt, sea water – fine by me, good sir or lady, but some dry lavender stalks are not lavender oil!”

The intruder’s face darkened. “Continue being thizz irreverent and you _will_ regret it,” they threatened.

The hamster yelped. It was much too easy to disregard him.

Their dark aura gained power…

As Anathema threw her hands up and prepared to reply snappishly, Marjorie pushed the two apart. “Stop quarrelling, children, make an effort to get along – there has to be an alternative!” she tried to calm her not-quite-daughter-in-law, putting a hand on her elbow, “I have – I have the one or the other plant oil on hand, not exactly lavender, except as a fragrance oil, if that is also possible, but rapeseed, sunflower, olive…”

Anathema pulled herself together, bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose between two of her fingers. She usually tried not to be so condescending, but that’s exactly what happened when you tried to work with laypeople who weren’t listening properly… “Olive,” she said, managing to keep quiet, “Please, Jo, if you’d be so nice. Thank you. Much obliged.”

With a bristling look towards the client, Anathema dropped back to her knees while Marjorie hurried into the kitchen to bring what was requested. In the meantime, she lifted the consecrated Athame out of its hiding place and readied it for use – she could hardly wait to cut this yellow unsightliness apart.

Then her eyes fell on the hamster, and she was startled by how terribly assiduously and gravely and – yes, almost majestically – his unnaturally tinted eyes fixed her. There was no doubt that this was not an ordinary pet.

“It’s okay,” she found herself whispering to her patient, “We'll have you back to normal in no time at all. Just wait a few more minutes…”

The animal rasped his teeth against each other; his whiskers quivered. Why on earth could Anathema not rid herself of the impression that he emanated a clear ‘It would be better for you, too’?

Anathema chewed gently on her lower lip – but luckily, Marjorie’s return with a handy, rectangular bottle of olive oil absolved her of having to deal with the animal any further. For the moment. “Thank you, Jo,” she murmured, the women exchanged a wry, hesitant smile, and Marjorie, nodding silently, retreated to her place to the left of the occultist.

Concentration now. Anathema closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths – until she could feel the clear, cool air circulating in her breathing tract. She tried to exist only within her skin, to shut herself off from outside impressions, against the black influence of stranger, the tender-grey charisma of Marjorie’s and – interestingly enough – the freezing cold, snow-white and electrically charged force field surrounding the hamster. The fact that she, as not the one who had cast the original spell, was trying to break it didn’t make things easier, but it should still work if there hadn’t been any grave errors in her preparation.

As Anathema opened her eyes, her mind was clear, her body and mind calm, and her determination firm.

The water in the plastic bowl in front of her was undisturbed and smooth as a mirror.

How was it possible that she only now noticed the aureole of pure white light that enveloped the hamster? Quite possibly he was indeed an angel… after the events on the airbase, there wasn’t much that Anathema Jane Nutter-Device would rule out as impossible anymore.

First, the occultist reached for the saltwater bottle; she unscrewed the cap, her anger about the deviation was a long distant memory. Quickly, with a firm and steady hand she poured the water into the bowl in form of a pentacle – she only hoped there would be enough – and watched the waves and curls produced by this. Don’t spill anything…

It was enough. Good.

Anathema sealed the bottle again and put it aside; as a next step, she reached for the candle and the oil. Unexpectedly, the knowledge hit her like a thunderclap that the candle was stolen, possibly from a theatre or the like; this made her concerned about the energies that might be associated with it, but she also trusted the cleansing properties of the oil. If it could help breaking spells and curses, it should also be able to help banishing the evil energies of a theft.

“As I bless this candle’s light, allow the essence to multiply by the power of three, so mote it be,” she whispered, anointing the thin candle with the oil. The smell was peculiar, but that was something one had to deal with in her position. She repeated it – it had felt right to say the incantation twice – and finally leant forward to place the candle in the bowl.

The hamster’s glance was severe. What do you think you’re doing, it seemed to ask, but Anathema hardly paid him any mind.

The match hissed as it took fire; the wick lighted without a moment’s hesitation.

Anathema took a couple of moments to stare into the little flame. It felt invigorating, and she could feel how her heartbeat slowed down in her chest. Everything seemed to move slower now; the whole world held its breath in the face of what was happening in this living room.

The next action should be taken by the original spellcaster – but in this case, amends had to be made3. The occultist put the stuffed animal on her knees, letting her glance shift from the real, breathing hamster to the plush caricature and imagining how she would reach out with her astral arms, strip the layers of the curse off the animal and apply them to the plush. Her monotone murmuring of the words “'Life or Death, Love or Hate, a spell was cast that I repudiate. Withdraw yourself from everything, come back to me, come back to me” all the while was almost an automatism. Anathema hardly noticed her lips, tongue and vocal folds moving.

The hamster squeaked.

It worked!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3: These were a lot of amends for a science that could be as pedantic as magic, Anathema was well aware. Still she was convinced she was on a perfect path – though why she could not tell.


	6. The Transformee

The Athame was simultaneously cold and feverish to Anathema’s grasp. A final time, the occultist glanced from the living creature to the plush. The critter met her eyes with fierce determination, crouched and little teeth bared as if he were in pain, and it almost seemed as if he were glowing. May the others realize it too?

Seldom had anything felt half as powerful and satisfying as the moment the Athame’s point, tearing and crunching, penetrated the felt between the toy’s cartoon eyes. White filling spilled out of the cut; the curse was damaged. It wriggled and retaliated a bit, but that was nothing a proficient occultist like Anathema couldn't handle.

“I condemn… the words of the past.” 

The first cut halved the toy by its length.

“I cut them small, half…” 

The second cut squarely halved the left part.

The filling was hard and unkempt and would have scratched Anathema’s fingers. She tried her best to not let it happen; like with any magic practice, it could hardly be predicted what consequences veering away from the recipe, materials or actions required could have. And a substance as potent as blood…

“… to half.”

The third cut halved the right part.

To be perfectly thorough and muttering the mantra above incessantly, Anathema also severed ears and tail, pulled the filling out of the quartered body of the toy and let it all drop into the bowl, paying mind that nothing would catch fire. She knew instinctively that Marjorie had a fire extinguisher at the ready, bless her caution, but Anathema nebulously mused that if this ritual would result in a house fire, no number of firefighters with water or foam would have a hint of a chance against it.

This was the final act – which was why the occultist cast a quick check-up glance at the hamster before proceeding.

The hamster face was screwed up and strained, but full of resolve.

_Do what you must do, human, and do it now!_

Anathema felt like there was electricity bristling through her – in her fingertips, her chest, tickling on her lips and tongue, behind her forehead, painfully in her optic nerve, flashing into the tips of her hair – as she finally opened her mouth for her final invocation.

“A spell was cast, now in the past. It was burned, the spell returned. Now take what’s left, and make it pure, harm to none, my lesson learned. So mote it be.”

Anathema had the strangest notion as if something was gazing into her eyes, with its head doubtfully inclined, giving a lip smack and doubting expression – _so **mote** it be, witch? Are you quite certain?_

“So – mote – it – be,” she insisted, almost maddened.

_Well, if you’re positive…_

There was no bang – no flash of light, no fire suddenly taking possession of the room or the sacrificial offering. Only the hamster gave another piercing squeal – Marjorie pressed both hands over her ears, Anathema could see it out of the corner of her eye – pulled his head to his furry chest, crouched, and something beneath his skin appeared to start boiling.

Thrilling, Anathema thought distantly and dully as she watched the proceedings. By her experience it could take about twenty-one days until this specific ritual took its effect; she had not expected a reaction that fast and manifest.

Within moments the residual candle stump burned down to nothing; the remainders of the plush toy smoked and shrivelled and turned to coal-black lumps of refuse in the water.

Marjorie’s hands relocated from over her ears to over her mouth.

Anathema could only sense smug satisfaction from behind her to the right, where the stranger stood.

Ever boiling and toiling, the hamster continued to grow, losing his fur, but forming clearly defined human-like limbs to make up for it. Muscles pressed through the skin. Shoulders, back, arms, legs, large hands and feet. His skin was white – a little sickly white, not rosy, but that could have come from hunger and from having been trapped in a rodent body for a month, unless he was truly an…

Oh, an angel…

Now kneeling on Marjorie Potts’ empty living room floor was a fully-grown male human, in his mid-thirties or early forties if Anathema had to guess, sans clothes and appallingly attractive, bent over his own body, on all fours and breathing hard. Still, considering the procedure he had just undergone, his breath was remarkably calm.

“See,” muttered the stranger, “As I said: sea salt is only found in the ocean.”

Cold recognition trickled into Anathema’s bones as the transformee sat back on his heels and lifted his head, turning it from side to side to let his cool, shadowed eyes glide from one to the other, calculating, assessing. The wind-blown, messy hair was new, but the angular face shape and the sharp nose, the strong cheekbones, the colourless and humourless lips…

He had been on the airbase. He too!

Witchfinder Sergeant Donald Shadwell, if he had been present, would have had a moderate fit at the sight of this apparition. On his expansive chest, resembling marble more closely than healthy human skin, there were not two, not three, not five or eight, not even one, not even the trace of a nipple to be found.

“Who…” Anathema breathed, but at that moment Marjorie found her mobility again. 

“Oh, children, does any of you have any decency?” she asked, jumping forward and making as if to grab the transformee by the shoulder to help him get up, whether he wanted to get up or not, “Bring the poor man some clothes for everything that’s sacred, I have a fitting bathrobe in the bathroom, certainly. And you, love, are you feeling quite alright, do you need any medication or anything? Would you like to lie down, have a nap on the couch… can I offer something to eat or drink? Tea maybe, some tea should do you good, or a strong soup…”

The kneeling man wrested his arm from Marjorie and stared at her imperiously, markedly searching the distance. “Don’t you dare touch me,” he growled. 

The hostess answered to this with a bright, almost chirping laugh. “No need to be shy, love, believe me, I won’t be sizing you up… I've seen all colours and shapes and forms in my life, you really are not showing me anything sensational.”

The grumpy look that he shot their hostess made her finally retreat half a step.

“Stop dragging your feet,” the stranger finally made themselves known, passing by the motionlessly kneeling Anathema and throwing a bundle at the knees of the transformee, “get up now, Gabriel, put on some clothes and let’s get out of there, there’s still appointments we need to catch.”

Gabriel...?

“Appointments?” He snapped back, finally getting up, which also reminded Anathema that she could rise from the floor already, “You still made appointments for me, you foul piece of filth?”

“I say…” Marjorie, indignantly, piped up, but she paused as her eyes slid down the transformee’s body. Anathema could empathize. She sincerely hoped that if Jo had ever seen anyone built like this – namely, blank and featureless and flat – she had sent him to the doctor right away. Or maybe to the medical university? To the local museum for malformations?

“The world keeps turning without you, peacock,” the stranger creaked while the transformee picked up the package and unfolded something that turned out to be a silver-white suit, complete with a tie and socks, “Even if you can’t get it through your featherbrain. If you don’t feel like crashing your career…”

“I almost missed your turn of phrase,” he interrupted groaning as he unfolded and put on the pants, “And I also see that you’re not even capable enough to pack shoes… hah, never mind. Well… if everyone has seen enough, then…” His expression and the twitch of his head and shoulders, made unmistakably toward the human women, were clear.

Marjorie proved to be utterly empathetic, and considerate as usual. She grabbed Anathema by the shoulders on both sides and pushed her out of the room, all the while voicing various excuses and congratulations.

“Anathema, sweetie… are you absolutely clear on what just happened out there?” the retired medium asked as her somehow-maybe-prospective-daughter-in-law sat down on her bed and supported her forehead in both palms – as a closed door finally separated the women from whatever had just happened in the living room. The annoyed chatter of the two supernaturals still reached through doors and walls to the humans’ ears and consciousnesses as indecipherable background noise.

“Not a hundred percent, no,” the occultist murmured, dulled and remote due to her posture. “Only those two in your living room… one is a demon, for sure, and the other… may or may not be an angel…”

Marjorie frowned. Anathema looked at her pleadingly – she knew that since the Apocalypse had almost happened and her kind-of-mother-in-law had shared her body with some sort of celestial being, his name had been too complicated for Anathema to hold on to, Jo had had a preconceived opinion about angels with which this figure was not at all compatible. But then, why should one angel be like all the others? 

“But sweetie,” Marjorie murmured, scratching her lower lip uneasily, “What would an angel and a demon… I mean, wouldn’t they rather… fight each other and not try to free the other from a curse?”

Anathema gave a blank sound and threw her hands in the air. She was at an utter loss. All education in the world paled to this situation.

“Do you really think we couldn’t have…”

Anathema grappled with her determination to stay patient. “How do you still want to help him? Sincerely, Jo. Okay, so he’s been a… rodent… for the last couple of weeks…”

“Now I understand too why he knocked over all my candles and my crystal ball and tried to chew up all my mystic books…”

“Yes, that sort of thing. But what I was driving at was: now he is how he’s supposed to be – whatever that might be – and I would really be surprised to see any of them around.”

“Nevertheless.” Marjorie leant against the wall and pursed her lips. “We could have offered refreshments or a small meal. We could have asked if there are friends or family that need to be informed! Or at least invite them to use the bath! After all the time this poor man had to go without even the possibility to take a bath…”

“You tried as best as you could.” Anathema’s smile was thin; she linked her hands on her knees, only prevented by the distance from amicably, supportively patting Marjorie’s gnarly elderly-lady-hands. “You were the most gracious host anyone could wish for, but they wanted nothing.”

Marjorie wavered. “Are you convinced that I…”

Anathema kept smiling. “Positive.”

After that, the room was silent for a couple of minutes. Anathema softly shook her head.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

Marjorie stopped short. “What’s that, sweetie?”

“Exactly. I think they left.”

Marjorie shot her a doubtful look before turning to the door and pushing it open a crack. “You’re right, sweetie,” she finally said and opened the door fully, “they even cleaned house.”

They hadn’t; not really. But the bowl and the bottle stood, cleaned and empty, on the sideboard, and what remained of the lavender stalks and the plush toy had vanished. Anathema’s Athame sat on the table against the far wall, and next to it…

Anathema felt her windpipe obstruct as she caught sight of the object. She rushed over to the table to pick it up, look at it incredulously and yet full of admiration; the little crouching idol figure was bearded, small and chubby, had a mouthful of dull but strong teeth and four protruding tusks. The figure, reminiscent of a Mesopotamian or Mesoamerican cross between the Egyptian household deity Bes and a Chinese lion, wore no more than a loincloth and a crown, its shoulders and back were furry, chest and legs naked, its eyes lacked pupils and still stared at her in a rather disquieting way. The stone was light to the touch, smooth, almost silky; had the occultist not known better she would have assumed she cradled something organic in her hands.

“What do you have there?” Marjorie asked, having stepped up to her side.

“Payment,” Anathema breathed, “A… Mesopotamian idol if I’m not mistaken. Jo, do you have any idea what this here means? Not only for museums and historians, but also for magic users around the globe?”

Marjorie didn’t know; of course, she didn’t.

Anathema hardly thought she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear reader, for following the story as far; I hope it has been a pleasure to you, thank you for your time, energy, occasional comments and kudos! Much appreciated!
> 
> I just wanted to take the time to acknowledge that the ritual Anathema was performing is not of my devising; I found it in the internet, you can read up on it here: https://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/spiritual_spells/warding_off_spells/13459/page.html
> 
> As already stated in the tags, this story is also hugely indebted to Mr. Paul Chahidi who, in a tweet, affectionately called Mr. Hamm 'the Hamm-ster.' I couldn't just leave that sitting there. So thank you, Mr. Chahidi, and I am tremendously sorry.
> 
> Thank you again and I wish you a nice day!  
> Greets  
> V


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